Arrivederci
by neithersaintnorsinner
Summary: Emma Approved universe. Emma drunk dials Alex from Italy (set between episodes 24 and 25).


Her father's first reaction to the idea of a trip to Italy is one of such abject terror that Emma doesn't so much as think the word 'linguine' for two weeks.

Alex spots her like-new copy of _Eat Pray Love _still lying on the coffee table when he drops by one night for dinner. He reads the summary, thumbs through a few pages, and sets the book down with a shake of his head.

"Planning to sail around the world?"

"Is this the part where you tell me to climb back up on the horse and come back to work, Alex, because—"

"Hey," he says, too-nice and too-soft, the way he had after State Senator Sucks-a-Lot (Senator Sycophant? She'll work on the epithet) fired her. Emma lets her eyes slide from Alex's elbow to his fingertips, thinks about the arm he'd put around her and how she'd cried for twenty minutes into the god-awful pattern of his shirt. "No rush, all right? There's always kind of a lull for us this time of year anyway."

She leans back against the throw pillows and curls her legs under her. "I guess."

"Come on, where's the Emma Woodhouse who shouts 'hell yes'?"

It is by no means stupidly endearing that he punctuates the last two words by pretending to punch the air with his fist. Not in the least. Emma feels the corners of her lips tugging upwards in spite of herself.

"As in, hell yes, we have no clients right now, and possibly no clients ever again?"

"Okay," he shifts to the edge of his seat, squeezes his hands together. "What's wrong? Besides the Elton…thing."

"Fiasco," she corrects, tipping her head back against the couch. "I just—I want to be somewhere that isn't _here_, for a little while."

They both look over at Mr. Woodhouse, who's dozing quietly in his chair. Soon he'll go to his study to finish reading another chapter of _The History of the Peloponnesian War_, drink a cup of chamomile tea, and fall asleep before the evening news. Emma glances at his feet to make sure his slippers are within reach.

When she turns back to Alex, he's smiling at her. "I think we can find a way to arrange that."

He scratches at the stubble on his face and, without thinking, Emma reaches over and sweeps her thumb across his cheek. He blinks twice in rapid succession.

"You should really shave," is all she says.

* * *

He doesn't, as evidenced by the exceptionally scruffy picture headlining his first post for the company blog, but Emma can hardly bring herself to complain. She's in _Italy_.

All it took was several days of meticulous planning and persuasion, triple-checking the privately chartered flight and hotel accommodations, and Alex's brainwave of emailing Mr. Woodhouse a study demonstrating the health benefits of travel.

Her father spends half an hour being reassured of their room's amenities by a concierge, and another hour doubtfully puttering around the immediate vicinity of the hotel. They still manage to visit several ateliers their first day; he indulges Emma's desire for three separate pairs of Heidrich Guabello heels, and even takes a sip—a very small sip—of wine with dinner. ("Strictly for the antioxidants," he tells her, sternly, and looks befuddled when she laughs and laughs.)

She's so buoyed by good spirits (or perhaps just jet lag) that she stays up well after he's gone to sleep; never mind that she spends the time rather pathetically at the hotel bar. The Chianti is excellent, and she's hovering somewhere between unsteady and tipsy when she notices a nearby businessman with a monogrammed handkerchief: "E".

"E" is an excellent initial to have, she decides. Flawless, even. Or it used to be. Emma vaguely wonders how one says "approved" in Italian. She pulls out her phone intending to look it up, but her browser is already open, Alex's blog post still displayed. She stares at the picture, at the familiar way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he starts to smile.

It takes approximately two seconds and the calling card in her purse to make a decision.

* * *

"Alex-xander George Knightley!"

Alex winces and moves the phone further away from his ear. "...Emma?"

"Who else would be calling you at this hour?" The words tumble out in a rush, just this side of slurred.

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon here, so…the people I'm conducting business with?"

"Yes, but you're supposed to recognize _my_ voice right away; we've only known each other for a thousand years. This is reprehensible, Mr. Knightley," she sighs, and he can imagine her pretending to shake her head mournfully at him.

She's never able to keep a straight face for long when she's drunk, though, and sure enough, she quickly dissolves into giggles. There's a muffled sound for a second, like her hand is obstructing the microphone. In the background he hears her demand '_un altro, per favore!,' _digging into the stressed syllables with enthusiasm.

"Sounds like someone's in a better mood. Enjoying Italy?"

"Absolutely, most- absolutely," she says, tripping a little over the words. "Oh! I read your very first blog post."

"And is it Emma Approved?"

She deepens her voice into what he assumes is meant to be an impression of his speech pattern, scratchy and a little stiff: " 'I think that some of you might enjoy hearing about doing things in an organized, methodical fashion when you want to attain a goal.' You're so serious," she breaks off, laughing. "I'm teasing; I think it's adorable. Not _adorable_. Adorable-ish. Adorblish. You're such a—"

"A what?"

Somehow, he can _hear _her grin, secret and small. "Nothing."

There's a long pause. Alex balances the phone on his shoulder and pointlessly shuffles some papers.

"Well. I should probably get back to, you know," he clears his throat. "The boring stuff. I'm glad you're having fun, Emma."

"Yeah," she says, but she doesn't hang up. "Alex?"

"Mm?"

She pauses again. "I like the picture," she says, and hangs up before he can respond.


End file.
